Quote

'Tis liberty alone that gives the flower Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume And we are weeds without it.

William Cowper

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William Cowper
Age: 68 †
Born: 1731
Born: November 26
Died: 1800
Died: April 25
Hymnwriter
Poet
Poet Lawyer
Translator
Writer
Berkhamsted
Hertfordshire
Wisdom
Lustre
Alone
Weeds
Without
Perfume
Giving
Fleeting
Life
Weed
Flower
Gives
Liberty

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But truths on which depends our main concern, That 'tis our shame and misery not to learn, Shine by the side of every path we tread With such a lustre he that runs may read.
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Remorse, the fatal egg that pleasure laid.
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He finds his fellow guilty of a skin Not color'd like his own, and having pow'r T' enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey.
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The cares of today are seldom those of tomorrow, and when we lie down at night we may safely say to most of our troubles, Ye have done your worst, and we shall see you no more.
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He that runs may read.
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How soft the music of those village bells, Falling at interval upon the ear In cadence sweet now dying all away, Now pealing loud again, and louder still, Clear and sonorous, as the gale comes on! With easy force it opens all the cells Where Memory slept.
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Spare feast! a radish and an egg.
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The man that hails you Tom or Jack, and proves by thumps upon your back how he esteems your merit, is such a friend, that one had need be very much his friend indeed to pardon or to bear it.
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I pity them greatly, but I must be mum, for how could we do without sugar and rum?
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They whom truth and wisdom lead, can gather honey from a weed.
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The proud are ever most provoked by pride.
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For 'tis a truth well known to most, That whatsoever thing is lost, We seek it, ere it comes to light, In every cranny but the right.
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Our love is principle, and has its root In reason, is judicious, manly, free.
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It is a general rule of Judgment, that a mischief should rather be admitted than an inconvenience.
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She that asks Her dear five hundred friends, contemns them all, And hates their coming.
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Thieves at home must hang but he that puts Into his overgorged and bloated purse The wealth of Indian provinces, escapes.
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Not a flower But shows some touch, in freckle, streak or stain, Of his unrivall'd pencil. He inspires Their balmy odors, and imparts their hues, And bathes their eyes with nectar, and includes In grains as countless as the seaside sands, The forms with which he sprinkles all the earth Happy who walks with him!
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Th' embroid'ry of poetic dreams.
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The Frenchman, easy, debonair, and brisk, Give him his lass, his fiddle, and his frisk, Is always happy, reign whoever may, And laughs the sense of mis'ry far away.
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Vice stings us even in our pleasures, but virtue consoles us even in our pains.
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